Клео Коул - Espresso Shot

“Oh, Neville. You’re jealous because I actually get paid for my writing. By the way, I’ve been wondering. What do you do for a living?”

Chef Perry winked at me. “I wonder if our food critic gets paid by the word or by the pound?”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Ersatz cheese is sold by the pound, Neville. That would be your department.”

Our escort reappeared, minus his hooded jacket, bearing a tray of wine. Roman accepted a glass, sniffed it with theatrical trepidation, then took a sip and made a face.

Perry lifted his chin in my direction. “I’ll bet Clare doesn’t think my blogs are crap.”

Roman raised a finger. “I didn’t say crap. I said ersatz cheese . There is a minor difference. Considering your reputation, it’s one you should recognize.”

Though the men were throwing comments as prickly as cactus leaves, I didn’t get the impression Neville Perry actually disliked Roman.

“Man, I hope we eat soon.” Perry glanced at his bling-heavy watch. “These aromas are making me ravenous.”

“Anything to clean my palate of this subpar wine,” Roman said, plopping his glass on the table.

“We’re still waiting for someone to arrive,” said one of the other guests.

Just then a loud voice boomed from the foyer. “I’m here, all! Start ringing the dinner bell!”

Roman looked as though he’d just sampled something more displeasing than the “subpar” wine. He turned to Neville. “Well, Perry, it appears you’re not the only show biz chef to taint us with his presence this evening.”

“Oh my God. Rafe Chastain is here,” burbled a woman at the table.

I knew Chastain by reputation, but I never expected the Adventure Channel’s infamous Exotic Food Hunter at Large to show up at a place like this. The man looked much the same as he did on my TV: a leanly muscled charmer with a face well lined from years spent under the harsh sun (not to mention his decades of hard living, if the man’s reputation for drinking, drugging, and daring was accurate). He wore his Egyptian cotton shirt open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, and his long legs sported tight black denims over pointed snakeskin boots.

Chastain’s television travels had taken him all over the world in search of new culinary experiences, which often involved eating the kind of stuff I’d run away from, not put in my mouth. We’re talking bugs, snakes, lizards, rats, along with the occasional feast of entrails, gizzards, and other questionable parts of animals, domesticated and wild.

I’d seen the show once or twice but was more familiar with the serious culinary articles he’d written for the New Yorker , GQ , and Food & Wine .

Intimidated by the celebrity’s entrance, no one rose to greet him. Mostly they just gawked, as if the man were still on display behind their high-def screens. Out of politeness I stepped forward.

“Hello, Mr. Chastain, my name’s Clare—”

“Nice to meet you, honey.” He gripped my hand, glanced down my blouse, and looked right past me. “Where’s the booze?”

The waiter with the wine tray approached, and Rafe Chastain snagged two glasses for himself. He downed one immediately and set the empty glass back on the tray. That’s when he noticed two familiar faces in the room.

“Roman. Neville,” he said, nodding in their general directions. Then he ran his fingers through his short, iron-gray hair, showing off the tattoos on his gangly forearms. Finally, he sniffed the air.

“Yum-yum. Something smells good.”

Frowning, Neville Perry glanced at his watch again. “I hope the food hasn’t gone cold. It’s been so long.”

Chastain smirked at the dig but held back his reply when he saw an older Asian woman bowing graciously before us.

“I’m Mrs. Weng. Welcome to my house.”

“Quiet, kids. The show’s starting,” Chastain loudly whispered.

“Tonight you will experience the cuisine of Chef Moon Pac,” Mrs. Weng continued. “Born in Chonju, South Korea, Moon Pac first learned to cook beside his Malaysian mother. The chef moved from there to some of the finest kitchens in Asia. He apprenticed at Jeolla Hoigwan, then went to Hong Kong and cooked at the Hoi Tin Garden—”

“I’m impressed,” Chastain interrupted before draining his second glass.

“Now he’s here,” the woman added, “and Chef Pac is ready to bring his unique fusion of Eastern cuisine to America. Please be seated.”

Chastain snatched another glass of wine from the waiter’s tray and suddenly hooked my arm. “Clare, wasn’t it? Come sit beside me, honey.”

“But I was speaking with Neville—”

“Yeah, Rafe, hands off,” Perry said. “I saw her first.”

“Gentlemen,” Roman interrupted. “Clare accompanied me to the ball.”

Chastain shrugged but failed to release me. “Fine. Then you two Flying Monkeys can sit next to us.”

Roman sniffed. “That’s Mr. Flying Monkey to you!”

Chastain took the seat at the far end of the table, near the house’s back patio door, and plopped me down beside him. I quickly offered Neville Perry the seat to my right. Roman settled into the chair across the table. Then the waiters streamed in with the first course.

“Malaysian hotcakes with curry dipping sauce,” our hostess announced.

A platter with a pile of hot, sticky dough, thin as tissue paper, sat beside a bowl containing a breast portion of chicken in a curry-colored sauce.

“Do they have to serve it with the bones?” asked a woman at the other end of the table.

Chef Chastain smirked. “The bones are where the flavor is, baby. They make the sauce rich and savory.” He tore into the thin pancake and plunged it into the bowl of hot sauce.

“This roti is the best Malaysian flatbread I’ve ever tasted,” Perry declared, his mouth still full.

“The sauce is piquant,” Roman noted. “It’s reminiscent of murgh makhani —classic Indian butter chicken—but without the tomato base.”

“Mmmmm. Besides the ginger, I taste garlic, coriander, cumin, and white pepper,” Chastain said. “Too much white pepper.”

“A few too many sprigs of lemongrass, as well,” Roman said.

Neville Perry caught my eye. “And a few too many critics. Don’t you think, Clare?”

I couldn’t argue. The crepelike pancake was so moist and delicious it almost tasted fried. And the dipping sauce was luxuriously succulent—buttery smooth yet spicy with the faintest kiss of heat. But I wasn’t here for the food. As I chewed and swallowed, I considered my next step with Perry.

Just go for it, Clare. Reel him in, pull the rug out, and see how he reacts.

I waited for the next course to come, ipol poh piah , a steamed Malaysian spring roll stuffed with white turnip, egg, onions, minced dried shrimp, and a salty fish paste. Roman and Chastain began discussing the benefits of dried versus fresh herbs and spices, and I laid my hand on Neville’s.

Time to get down to business.

“You’re a pretty popular guy among my employees,” I said, summoning a warm (hopefully trustworthy) smile. “In fact, one of my baristas swore you were near our coffeehouse the other night. Or maybe it was last night?”

“The Village Blend?” Neville shrugged. “Could be. I hang in the Village a lot, when I’m not downtown.”

“Is that where you live?” I leaned toward him. “Downtown?”

He smiled flirtatiously. “I can give you my number if you like. See, I’m transitioning. I had to move out of my old place; now I’m checking different neighborhoods to see what suits me.”